Dreaming Of You
by T'eyla Minh
Summary: A fic written after a semi-surreal dream. Aeryn's been having a recurring dream, but this time, the ending is different. J/A shippy, but ANGST ALERT! Find tissues NOW! And please R&R :
1. Dreaming of You

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DREAMING OF YOU

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SUMMARY: Aeryn's having a recurring dream that she mostly can ignore… but when it goes on longer than usual, her feelings about it and her current situation change... Yet more IP:IA angst from my sadistic Muse, and a sequel, of sorts, to "Nothing More You Can Do". Mucho J/A shippiness. Dreamfic.

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RATING: PG-ish, as usual.

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DISCLAIMER: While the characters may not be mine, the dream kind of is. (I've included the relevant part of my live journal entry about my own subconscious ramblings that inspired this…)

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SPOILERS/SETTING: "Season of Death" to "Icarus Abides"…? If you haven't seen the latter, you may not want to read this one. This could take place on either Moya or Talyn, but it's mostly in Aeryn's head, hence the rather more descriptive use of language in this compared to the other one…

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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Dear Muse, why do you see fit to come up with ideas at 2am? That much, actually, I could probably deal with, but why, my dear, sweet, Muse, must you make me write them at that time and keep me up until 4am doing so? People, this ain't gonna be pretty. My shippy angst is on overdrive, and I sincerely apologise right now if this makes anyone cry. This is shippy, fluffy, and very sappy, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing under the circumstances… It nearly made me cry last night (this morning?) when I was scribbling it down… and I'm more convinced that ever before that Aeryn is, in fact, my Muse…

Um… 'enjoy'.

Dreaming of You

© T'eyla Minh 2001

She was having the dream again, and no matter what she did, no matter what she thought about before going to sleep, nothing would make it go away. She refused to let it upset her in her waking moments, throwing herself completely into work, whether it was necessary or not. Menial jobs, maintenance checks, routine backups… anything it was possible to do, she did do.

But nothing can stop the unconscious mind when it has a message for a person, and every night was the same…

She would enjoy an hour of dead sleep, her brain full of no thoughts, no emotions, just a complete shut down. Then, just before the dream started, she would involuntarily curl into a foetal position, protecting herself from the onslaught of emotions that would inevitably bombard her, unawares. And then, when some part of her mind was satisfied that she was physically ready, the dream would begin, as it always did…

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She stands outside a room, the door familiar for a reason she cannot identify. She raises a hand to push it and finds, not her usual Peacekeeper leather, but a soft, mahogany coloured wool. A large sweatshirt, over black denims, and thick, grey socks… and though both of these are entirely alien to her, she knows what they are, and to whom they really belong.

Opening the door, she enters into a haze of brown, red, dark cream, and orange, the colours merging to resemble a bloodshot sepia, and a warm sense of calm. The room is unlit, both dark and light enough to see by, the only illumination coming from the slowly setting sun as it filters through a large, square window.

There he sits, in that armchair she both loves and hates for opposing reasons, and has never seen before, but is familiar all the same, as most dream-objects are. The fading light casts his silhouette in front of her.

She closes the door, and his head turns to watch her approach. Two words immediately reveal his identity. She already knows who he is, but at the same time, is pleasantly surprised.

"Hey, baby."

She smiles and approaches, stopping a few inches short of the chair, and assuming feigned annoyance at its continued presence in the room. He answers her before she even asks the question.

"I know. You hate this thing, and I was supposed to throw it in the trash months ago. But I like it, so it stays."

She says nothing to that, but walks to the window and leans back, half-sitting on the large, foam-filled arm of the chair. It creaks and bends in slightly towards the seat in complaint. On closer scrutiny, it is a deep, autumnal orange, fuzzy, the fabric held to the aging frame with dark bronze tacks, scuffed and dented. The chair has had some adventures, over three generations of his family. She wonders now why she wants it gone.

She stands like this undisturbed for a few seconds (although she knows they should be called 'microts', but also knows they should not.). Then, an arm moves around her waist, pulls her back, and shifts her centre of balance. She shrieks quietly as she tumbles back, and he drags her, unceremoniously, into his lap. Her back rests against a combination of his other arm and the opposite side of the chair, his original arm still wrapped around her waist.

Now able to achieve eye contact, she finally speaks.

"You know I don't like it when you do that."

He laughs. "So how come you never move?"

"Because," she says, smiling, "I quite like the final outcome." Her hand moves up, the sleeve of her garment to her knuckles, and she strokes his hair. It's your method I'm dubious about."

"Well… maybe you shouldn't stand where I can reach you." He runs a hand over her stomach, rubbing the wool of the sweatshirt, then reaches up to capture her hand in his. He pulls the sleeve further down to completely cover her hand. "And when are you gonna stop stealing my clothes?"

"When you learn to hide them better."

They laugh, and he leans his forehead against hers. They sigh simultaneously.

"I love you," he says, knowing how inadequate those three words are, knowing a word has yet to be invented in any language to let her know the truth. She repeats the sentiment, out of a familiar tradition coined too long ago to remember.

It almost becomes a fallacy when words can never be enough, and the feeling is too great to ever encompass in a single phrase.

She kisses him, because she can, and because she senses the exact moment to do so. He ends it, seconds later, for all the same reasons.

A ritual.

And normally, it ends here…

In the conscious world, her body uncurled itself and straightened out, as it usually did, preparing for the mental road of calm unconsciousness that lies ahead. Unheeded and unbidden, the dream continued, even in her vulnerable state…

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Ignoring the puzzlement at the sudden newness, she shifts to a more comfortable position. She rests her feet on the arm of the chair and brings her knees up, leaning against him with her head on his shoulder. Close is never close enough, and he hugs her to him, ever closer still.

Somehow, she realises that in this new turn of events, she is in control, and must initiate conversation without the aid of her rebelling subconscious.

"Why are we still here?" She feels his confusion. "I'm normally gone by now."

"I don't know." A pause. "Do you want to leave?"

"No. Never. That's the problem. I don't want to leave ever again."

"You'll have to leave at some point."

She doesn't answer, but shifts her head slightly, burying it further into his neck, mumbling. "…not letting you go again…"

Silence permeates the room, and then the atmosphere shifts, almost imperceptibly.

"Aeryn…"

She looks up, her own name seeming heart-wrenchingly familiar said in his voice.

"What?" she asks, swallowing the sob that threatens to escape.

"The others… they'll worry."

"They already do."

"Okay," he says, wiping the tears she was unable to stop. "Then they'll worry more…" She nods, but makes no attempt to move. "C'mon, you have to go back."

"Please, John…" She stops. The name has been unspoken for so long it sound almost alien to her. She takes a deep breath and tries again. "I'll go back, I promise… but just give me a few more hours here."

"There's only ten more minutes of the sleep cycle left. You'll have to go then, whether you want to or not." Noticing the question that is about to form, he silences her with a finger on her lips. "Believe me, I don't want you to go either. I want you to stay… God, I want to go with you… But you know it's impossible."

"I can't go on like this any more. I need you…"

"I know." He has to tell her something, and knows she won't want to hear it, but it must be said. "There's someone who needs you, too."

She knows exactly what he means, but makes no effort to acknowledge the fact.

"The other one. He needs you. Don't hurt him any more, please."

"I can't…" she trails off, then takes a deep breath and tries again. "I can't… let myself love him, John. He's not you."

"He is me."

"But the memories… our memories. He doesn't have those…"

"No. But you do." Uncomprehending, she sighs. "He loves you."

"I know… that's why it feels so wrong. Everything I've… we've been through, he doesn't know any of it. I don't want to end up… comparing."

"Talk to him. Tell him everything, if you have to."

"He'll be jealous."

"Probably. But he'll understand."

"But what if-"

"You've only got five minutes left, and this part of the dream is never going to happen again. I know you wouldn't want to waste it."

She nods.

He kisses her, long, lingering, everlasting in a place where neither needs to breathe. They break apart, if only to necessitate more talking. There are other things to say yet.

"I know how much it hurts, honey," he says, the familiarity one left unused since a time neither recalls. "Remember, I lost you for a while, too, and that was only for a day or so… and even in that short time, I didn't want to go on. I asked D'Argo to kill me."

"He wouldn't."

"No." He gets up, taking her with him. Conceding defeat, she allows herself to be placed on the ground, and they walk to the door, fingers entwined without either of them realising. They stop mere inches from it. "I know you're afraid of what might happen, of losing him like you did me. But, even if you can't love him again, at least promise me you won't shut him out of your life. Please?"

"I promise."

He pulls her close, and they hold each other for the last few precious minutes.

"Where is this place, anyway? Do you know?"

"Yeah. It's my Dad's old cabin. I was going to show it to you when we got to Earth…"

She nods. She knew this, somehow. "I love you…" she says, somewhat futilely. "I don't want to leave yet…"

"Beyond my control, Sunshine," he admits. "The Powers That Be are gonna take you back, anyway. Just remember something."

"What's that?" she asks, and pulls away to face him.

"That I love you, and that I'll always be here…"

The kiss reaches her forehead a mere two seconds before the door opens of its own volition and fills the room with light. This is the end, and the land of the living beckons…

She awoke the next morning tense and in pain, her body having straightened itself out in the night and held the position too strictly. Beyond that, there was a yearning ache somewhere in her stomach that she was unable to exactly identify.

Somehow, she knew she had to talk to John. The other John, the one who was still living, breathing, and waiting for her. At the same time, however, something told her not to, not just yet.

The day passed like any other, but her companions noticed she was much less aggressive in her approach to work. A sense of serenity seemed to envelope her.

That evening, absently flipping through John's notebook and trying to read the words, she realised that shutting out the other Crichton would not help. She found the star chart, half-remembering and half-understanding the words on the page: 'Huey'. 'Duey'. 'Louis'. …'Aeryn'. She turned to an earlier page, filled with writing. She couldn't read most of it, but saw her name several times.

He would know what it said, she decided. After all, if they were one and the same, then his memories before she left for Talyn would be the same. Perhaps, one day, she might get him to tell her what it said.

Perhaps, one day, she might let him teach her all over again…

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F~I~N

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A/N continued again: Phew! That was a harrowing experience, let me tell you… And if you would care to go _here__, you can read the live journal entry about the dream that started it all (and a lot of other rambling as well…) And yes. The title's cheesy. There's a reason. It's part of a line from "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" from "The Phantom of the Opera" (my other Muse is Erik…), and the line in question goes as follows: "Dreaming of you won't help me to do all that you dreamed I could." Actually, the whole song's pretty well the same general feeling of this._

Feel free to review. Feel free to yell at me for making you all cry, too. I know I would.


	2. Little side note ^_^

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Oops, hehe, I forgot that the hyperlink wouldn't work… Here is that live journal entry.

DISCLAMER: The poems are MOST DEFINITELY not mine and I didn't put them there for any profit on my behalf. The live journal entry, however IS mine… (yes, I know the use of the shift key has alluded me in this. That's just how I type my journal…

Subject:

so i'm an english geek now as well...

Time:

2:49 pm. 

Mood:

weird... but... bad weird.

Music:

the theme of that thing with dick van dyke in it..

we looked at two poems today that really struck me. i transpose them here for your enjoyment, complete with why i like them :)  
  
_The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping_  
(Grace Nicholls)  
  
Shopping in London winter  
is a real drag for the fat black woman  
going from store to store  
in search of accommodating clothes  
and de weather so cold  
  
Look at the frozen thin manniquins  
fixing her with grin  
and de pretty face salesgirls  
exchanging slimming glances  
thinking she don't notice  
  
Lord is aggravating  
  
Nothing soft and bright and billowing  
to flow like breezy sunlight  
when she walking  
  
The fat black woman curses in Swahili/Yoruba  
and nation language under her breathing  
all this journeying and journeying  
  
The fat black woman could only conclude  
that when it come to fashion  
the choice is lean  


Nothing much beyond size 14

  
  
i think this just reminded me how grace nicholls' poetry was the only stuff i actually liked at gcse, and i love this poem :) especially that "lord is aggravating" line.  
  
anyway, here's the next one. longish explanation follows.  
  
_(from) Long Distance_  
(Tony Harrison)  
  
Though my mother was already two years dead  
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,  
put hot water bottles her side of the bed  
and still went to renew her transport pass.  
  
You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.  
He'd put you off an hour to give him time  
to clear away her things and look alone  
as though his still raw love were such a crime.  
  
He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief  
though sure that very soon he'd hear her key  
scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.  
He _knew_ she'd just popped out to get the tea.  
  
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.  
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,  
in my new black leather bound phone book there's your name  
and the disconnected number I still call.  
  
  
right, explanation forthcoming... but first, a dream that i re-remembered at break today. my "farscape" dream. enjoy :)  
  
it was only short, and very bizarre (hey, like i ever have any normal dreams... the day i do, i'll be very scared). it was a john&aeryn dream (again), my second on record, and that makes me officially obsessed... okay, so we knew that. anyway, i digress. the dream.  
  
i think i was aeryn. i don't really remember, it was all very hazy. if not, then i was watching it. in fact, i vaguely remember actually _seeing_ aeryn, so i probably can't have been her, but the whole thing was very odd, sort of veiled. like i was drunk, or very tired, and the atmosphere was... weird. and the colouring was very warm, all reds and yellows and browns and oranges. it reminded me a little of a scene from "lolita" (the jeremy irons version), but i forget why.  
  
from what i remember, plot-wise, there was very little. there was a room. a window. it was late evening in summer, or possibly early morning, but it was that sort of time where the sun is just barely visible and everything looks all shadowy, but it's still light. and it was all very warm... i remember the warmth of it. and there was a chair... and john was in the chair... just a little wooden one, i think, and aeryn came in... and she just sat on his lap. and they were just there, in each others arms.  
  
i recall it made me feel all warm and tingly inside... but it was vaguely upsetting after monday's ep (and i think that must be where it came from...)  
  
then... it got a little surreal. (of course.) something about the sun, and how it couldn't touch her (that might be to do with those solar flares in the ep, too.)... and i recall this feeling of overwhelming dread...  
  
that's about all i remember coherently. i forgot it when i woke up, but i had a feeling i'd dreamt something really... weird, or profound, or something, but i just had this _feeling_...  
  
then i remembered it in the middle of poetry after i read the harrison poem... weird, huh?  
  
but that poem... it just reminded me so inexplicably of john and aeryn, and don't ask me to explain why because i can't. switch the gender roles, imagine they have a child who's telling this, i don't know, but it did. it was that line, "as though his still raw love were such a crime." it really got to me.  
  
and i _hate_ it when things get to me and i don't know why…

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Okay, the rest wasn't important… Just thought this would be interesting so you could see how I came up with the image of the room and everything… Right, you can go now.


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